


New York Cool

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF, footy ficathon - Fandom
Genre: Gen, The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon, USMNT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best bromance this side of the Atlantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New York Cool

“The Instagram votes are in!” 

Before DeAndre could even process _that_ thought through the fog of sleep, the sharp, hard press of Mix’s body a sudden strike on his. The clatter of bone and muscle together knocked the air from his chest, had his eyes popping open. 

“Hey- what?” DeAndre tried to cover his eyes with his hand, only to feel it being tugged away in a sure grip. Mix already up and at ‘em, his old polo shirt over plaid pj bottoms, his hair flopping around his face and shoulders. The bed they were on, best that money could buy - well rent, anyway, in this room a part of this house on the beach, with nothing but ocean view through the semi opaque drapes. 

“They’re _innnnn_. The votes. About the art we did at the beach?”

Oh yeah, ohhhh _yeah_ , like Celine Dion, it was all coming back to him now. Two weeks ago they did art on the sand, portraits of each other, before posting their efforts for everyone to vote. 

“Who won?”

“Uhhh,” Mix sat back on his haunches, raking his hair back from his face with his fingers. Sometimes, you got the feeling that Mix would just fall asleep for a second in mid conversation, before the synapses in his brain fired up again, jolting him back to the present, armed with speech. He smiled then, a big ol’ shit eating grin, that made his eyes crease at the corners. “Guess.”

“You’re killing me,” DeAndre groused, glaring at his friend. Mix hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, so he had a five o’ clock shadow situation going on, as if the month of November/statchember hadn’t passed until the next year. 

“Yeah, I _killed_ you. So you know the drill.”

“Awww _man_.”

“You don’t have to juggle, just -”

“Really? We’re doing this? It’s a--- _thing_.”

“If you’d won, you’d have me-- _uhh_ do it too, you can’t back out of it.”

“You’re an asshole.”

***

“You’re an asshole,” DeAndre repeated later for good measure.

He didn’t even know which mall they were in, because San Diego wasn’t his stomping ground, neither Mix’s to be fair, but Mix actually scoped out the mall within a twenty five minute drive, instructions blaring out from his phone. Now, DeAndre turned to the mirror of the sports shop, running his splayed fingers over his wardrobe, as he wrinkled his nose in the mirror. Black polo shirt, jeans way too snug, and a snapback matching his shirt. “You even dress like an asshole.”

“Say _cheese_.” 

DeAndre raised his eyebrows - and two middle fingers. _Suck on it_. 

In return Mix raised his iphone and clicked the picture, his smile loopy and genuine, and DeAndre let it go. The style that was all Mix’s - and _so not his own_ and it was _fine_ , because a bet was a bet but still... “We’re not gonna post this on Instagram, right?”

“A bet is a bet.”

“You’re still an asshole.”

***

“So,” Mix began later, as they teased the fire into a good crackle and warmth on the beach a little ways from their rented beach house. Winter was coming, the days shorter, the nights longer. The sun dipped into the ocean, leaving the sea the colour of moving, inky black, the sky unbrushed black velvet; the fire kept the gloom away from their little space, shadows flickering around Mix’s face. “Tottenham Hotspurs.”

“They don’t call it that, they call themselves the _Spurs_ ,” DeAndre tried mimicking the accent of the English guy who interviewed him last month but gave up. “Or Tottenham - but in a weird way.”

“I know,” Mix smiled a little, before he poked at the fire with a long stick. They seated on blankets away from the fire, but still close enough to feel its heat. “I played in Europe for a while, remember? More Norway than the PL though, but you hear about them in Norway.”

DeAndre reached between them, taking out a marshmallow from the oversized container, and speared his stick through the soft flesh. “Yeah, but you’re in New York now, _An Empire State of Mind_. It’s weird though, you coming this direction and me going that way...”

“ _Strangers in the Night/exchanging glances/wondering in the night-_ ” Mix broke into song, his notes _way_ off key, like _ohmahGawdthat’sbad_ offkey. 

“Oh, no, _noooo_ ,” DeAndre cackled, waving frantically at Mix to stop. “What is that? What are you doing?”

“Uhh- Frank Sinatra?” Mix ran his fingers through his hair, trying to smooth it down as the wind made his strands dance around. “Getting into the mood.”

“No Jay-Z?”

“I’m getting there, I’m trying to get caught up, music wise. I’ll get to Jay-Z soon, I am sure.”

DeAndre held out his stick, rotating his marshmallows near the flame. This was the tricky bit, too close and it melted off the stick into charred goop; too far and you might as well dip them in hot chocolate and call it a day. He heard the clink of can against can as Mix went into their oversized knapsack and took out a bottle of beer. _Bottled beer_ , because Mix never drank the stuff out of a can if he could avoid it. 

“It’s a-- bummer, you know?” Mix exhaled on a heavy gust of breath. “I hoped that we’d have played in the same league together.”

“We’d have been on different coasts, even if we were in the same league.”

“I know,” Mix poked at the fire one last time before putting the stick to one side, the hiss of air as he cracked open the cap off the bottle. “We’ve always been on different coasts, me at Rosenberg you here; and now I’m here, you’re going to be in London. It’s so uhh-- weird, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So are you excited? You’ll be playing with the Spurs-- the coach and Clint played there. Big cleats to fill.”

 _Excited_ wasn’t the word. Frightened to the point of dry heaves at turns might have been the more accurate phrase. The choice that kept him up at night, that made his heart gallop, the games that he watched, trying to see where he’d fit in the coach’s lineup. 4-2-3--- _high pressing_ it was just unbelievable, just... He had to play it cool. “I’m excited.”

“You’re scared _shitless_ ,” Mix said, the teasing note taking DeAndre out of his thoughts, and he laughed because Mix knew him so well. So odd that a guy raised on the other side of the world, whom he didn’t know until the last two years, and now look at them. 

“Yeah,” DeAndre withdrew the stick from the fire, and waved it in the air in order to cool the marshmallows, now softened and cooked by the fire. “I’m scared shitless. It’s a new league, new people. I mean, the coach Pochettino, he’s not even English you know? He’s um.. Argentinean? It’s crazy, and yet -” he turned to Mix, unable to help the feeling bubbling from his stomach, and up his throat, fizzing like the carbonated drink in Mix’s hand. “I want it all, you know? All I ever wanted to do was play for Seattle, to put on the green and black to just...play. It was my world, and now, it’s like -”

“Your world got bigger.”

“Yeah, and it’s crazy, but I want it all. I hear the Premier League is crazy fast, the game play different, the passes one touch. I remember Clint saying that when he came from Europe and started playing here, it’s like everything was slower. I want it, I want to know- I want to know what it’s like to run crazy fast, and it be expected of me, because everyone is expected to be crazy fast too. And -” like a fizzy drink that got shaken too much, emotions were exploding _everywhere_ splashing on everyone and everything- and now DeAndre felt half empty inside, the emotions still there, still... 

“And?”

“I ---don’t know.”

Mix took a swing of his beer then, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, his features more shadow than light. After a look that went a beat too long, DeAndre shrugged his shoulders before bringing the stick to his teeth and nipping at the marshmallows- sweet and smoky flavours that melted on his tongue. A taste of childhood, and something good, flavours that grounded him for the while. 

“I remember ahh- when I had to choose who to tie my international life to, and I had to choose between America and Norway,” Mix began, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Both choices were good, right? I knew Norway, and it would have seemed safer to go with what I knew, but I chose America instead. I got to see a new part of the World, and meet new people- and it’s a great opportunity. DeAndre, you were right to say yes.”

And yeah, Mix would understand that, the opportunity over everything. “And you? Mr NYFC?” DeAndre asked, handing over the stick of marshmallows and getting Mix’s beer in return.

“I’ve always wanted to live in New York, and this opportunity came up. It’s exciting, I’ll be living in New York, playing in Yankee stadium --” Mix said between bites of gooey marshmallow. “I’ll be hard boiled? Hard boiled,” he repeated at DeAndre’s nod, “A-- super tourist.”

“I’ll be in London, trying to drive on the left side of the road, trying to find a barber-” at this DeAndre self consciously rubbed his hand over his hair. He’d cut it short, grown out the dye. Until he got the gauge of his new surroundings, it wouldn’t help things if he rocked up to his new teammates and people looked at him crazy. 

“Will you be keeping it short? Like that? You look like a banker.” 

Yikes. “Until I see what’s out there. New teams, new coach -”

“But your eyebrow-?”

“Oh, no, I’m keeping _that_ ,” DeAndre waggled his eyebrows, before taking a swing of beer.

***

Announcements blasting over the tannoy, the hustle and bustle of people as they rushed around them. The whir of wheels against the floors as people hauled their wheeled suitcases behind them. People streaming in and out and around them like currents on the wind and just as loud.

By some crazy coincidence, they were leaving San Diego on the same day, just different times. 

Mix in his snapback cap worn backwards- NY not NYFC- because the world didn’t know, not just yet. In his usual get up of polo shirt and jeans, and a smile. His knapsack hanging off one shoulder, his suitcase by his side, looking more like a harried college student on the way back to college from a work study in another state. His face with that genuine look of perennial amusement that DeAndre had gotten to know quite well. 

There was so much he wanted to say, like, _Will you visit me in London, if you can?_ , or _Yeah, I wish we could’ve played together too, apart from the USMNT_ , or even _I’ll miss you_. 

“I can’t believe you won that Instagram contest,” tripped out of DeAndre’s mouth instead, and wait, what? No, he’d gotten over it and wearing Mix’s stuff although his style was _uncool_... honest,  honest. 

“You hate us, because you anus.”

“No!” DeAndre cracked up, because he was twelve, totally. “ _Ain’t us_.”

“I know what I said.”

“You’re -- crazy. Mix, I -”

Mix saved them both, in that he swept him into a hug, their bodies coming together as if it were two days ago, but a lot less painful. DeAndre hugged him, his hands splayed across his back, pressing his face into Mix’s shoulder, smelling the faint notes of cardamom and liquorice that always seemed to cling to his clothing and hard because of the Norwegian candy he’d carry wrapped in his clothing on his cross Atlantic trips. 

“We’ll meet up at USMNT the next time Jurgen calls us, yes?” Mix asked, the question curling into DeAndre’s ear on a gust of warm air. 

“Yeah,” DeAndre said around the lump in his throat. “You need to visit me in London when things aren’t so crazy, and I’ll hook you up with some Spurs merchandise.”

“Snapbacks or bust.”

“Or bust,” DeAndre agreed.

“I’ll miss you, I think. When I’m in between training and being New York Cool.”

DeAndre squeezed him tight, silently thanking Mix for not making it weird, for making it easy. 

“I think I’ll miss you too.”

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the footie fest (part 2). For this prompt: DeAndre sharing his fears/anxieties/excitement about moving to Spurs or Mix being unsure where he'll end up playing or anything :D
> 
> Hope you like it? If not, I can try again. :)'
> 
> The Instagram competition between the two - the details are here:http://www.mlssoccer.com/sideline/news/article/2014/12/10/contest-deandre-yedlin-mix-diskerud-create-beach-artwork-portraits-one-another

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [New York Cool [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10286276) by [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit)




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